


it starts like this

by extremegraphicviolins



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Galaxy Garrison, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Kerberos Mission, SHEITH - Freeform, it's not super graphic but there's some blood and stuff so be aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 02:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14607324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremegraphicviolins/pseuds/extremegraphicviolins
Summary: It starts like this: you come out of the flight sim and you’re the only cadet who didn’t puke. Across the room, you see him looking at you — thoughtful, almost impressed — and after the lesson, he pulls you aside and tells you you fly well.You’re suspicious of the praise. You can tell when people don’t mean it.He means it.A series of beginnings.





	it starts like this

**Author's Note:**

> This fic kind of just... happened. Enjoy!

i.

It starts like this: you come out of the flight sim and you’re the only cadet who didn’t puke. Across the room, you see him looking at you — thoughtful, almost impressed — and after the lesson, he pulls you aside and tells you you fly well.

You’re suspicious of the praise. You can tell when people don’t mean it.

He means it.

 

ii. 

It starts like this: a week or so later, his gaze still lingers on you and your simulator score. It’s your best yet, by a few hundredths of a point.

He lingers, too, after the lesson, and falls into step with you as you leave. Casually, he offers a way into the simulator after hours.

You look around. Iverson is nowhere in sight.

Casually, you accept.

 

iii.

It starts like this: you and him, in the flight sim at midnight, with you in the pilot’s seat. He gives you the occasional direction — _ease off the fuel, there’s a meteor on your right_ — but mostly, he lets you fly.

He’s seeing what you can do, but it doesn’t feel like an examination. The pressure that’s always there when Iverson’s watching is gone. You’ve only known him a few weeks, but strangely, you trust him. There’s something honest about him that’s hard to pin down. A natural ease between the two of you that you’ve never felt with another person.

 _You’ve got something special,_ he tells you.

You don’t say it out loud, but he’s got it too.

 

iv.

It starts like this: he becomes your mentor. Offers to help you train after hours, offers you tips on how to fly not quite so recklessly, offers you advice and encouragement and a thousand doors that were never open to you before.

You’re not exactly sure when it happens, but he becomes your friend. Offers you a seat at his lunch table, offers you his time, offers you a space in his life that you fit into seamlessly.

And after about two months of dancing around the inevitable, you kiss him on the lips, clumsy and rough but with so much heart.

He’s your first kiss.

And as he leans back in, he becomes your second.

 

v.

It starts like this: Keith and Shiro, sitting in a tree. Or in the sim. Or in the dorm. Or on the roof. Either way, the result is the same: K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

He kisses like he flies — smooth and practiced, so well it makes your knees weak. He’s quick on the uptake, too; learns that you like it sloppy, with lots of tongue, that you like his hand in your hair and his arm around your waist.

He’s more than just a hookup, more than a distraction from the rigors of the Garrison, more than just a way to blow off steam. What you and him have is more than just physical, but—

He kisses you deep and slides a knee between your legs, and you shiver—

_More, Shiro._

His eyes are adoring, pupils blown wide in the dark. He never takes his gaze off of you.

As if to worship, he drops to his knees.

 

vi.

It starts like this: he all but runs up to you, with the biggest smile on his face. The run turns into a leap, so you drop your textbooks in the middle of the hallway and catch him, spinning him around. Shiro honest-to-god giggles, his happiness too big to be contained.

 _What’s the occasion?_ you ask around a laugh.

 _I’m not supposed to tell anyone yet, but…_ His grey eyes are sparkling as he grins. _It’s the Kerberos mission, Keith. I got it._

 _Shiro,_ you manage. _Does this mean…?_

 _Yeah,_ he says breathlessly. _I’m going to space._

You kiss him in the hallway, and for once, you don’t care who sees.

 

vii.

It starts like this: your love has a time limit. The eighteen months until the Kerberos launch get whittled down to twelve in the blink of an eye. You both stay at the Garrison for the summer, and just like that, three more precious months disappear.

You try to stay positive — you’re unbelievably happy and so, so proud of him— but at the same time, you can feel it — a ticking time bomb in your chest — and you wonder if he feels it too.

Time is running out, so you savour every bit of what you have left.

Shiro pulls some strings, and that’s the reason you’re allowed to come to the launch to say goodbye.

 _Come back to me,_ you say.

He holds you tight, drops a kiss on your forehead, even though Iverson is glaring daggers into your back. _I always will._

 _Promise?_ You said you wouldn’t cry. But then, you say a lot of things.

_Promise._

Your last kiss is rushed, because _we can’t afford to be behind schedule_ , because _there are regulations_ , because _you’ve pushed the envelope quite enough as it is, Officer Shirogane._

 _I love you,_ he says.

You say it back, without hesitation.

And you watch him fly away.

 

viii.

It starts like this: PILOT ERROR. It’s what every screen in the Garrison says. It’s what all your commanding officers say. It’s on the national news for two straight weeks.

It’s a lie. You have to believe it’s a lie, because you aren’t sure you could handle the alternative. Things go wrong in space, but Shiro — steady, competent, sure in his abilities — would never be the reason why. And yet it’s what everyone is telling you. _Drop it. Stop looking. He’s dead._

You see red.

Shiro wouldn’t want you to give up your future, but you’ll be damned if you give up on him.

Alone in the desert, you look up to the stars and vow to find him.

 

ix.

It starts like this: a meteor falls to Earth one night. For months, you’ve been searching and watching and waiting for _something_ , something that was supposed to happen tonight. This must be it. You don’t question it, don’t quash the hope that’s welling up in your chest already. You just get on your hoverbike and go.

It isn’t a meteor that’s made a crater in the dry desert earth, though.

It’s a ship.

You can’t remember ever having run so fast, legs pumping hard as soon as you hit the ground. The distraction you created works, and you slip inside the tent, and on the table—

_...Shiro?_

It’s _him._ God, it’s him, strapped to a metal countertop and swarmed by scientists in hazmat suits. You can tell by the way his head lolls to the side that they’ve given him something, that he’s been sedated.

Your fist is flying before your brain even registers it. Equipment crashes to the ground as you throw the Garrison scientists across the room, but you can’t care that you’re destroying thousands of dollars worth of technology. Not when Shiro is _here_ , in front of you, for the first time in a year. Not when Shiro’s alive.

You slip his arm over your shoulder and get ready to leave.

A cadet from the Garrison that you vaguely remember bursts in, all abrasive bravado, insisting that he be the one to save Shiro. You roll your eyes and go along with it. You don’t have time to protest, not even when two more cadets show up and you’re forced to carry five people on your hoverbike.

The Garrison tries to follow you. Oh, do they try. You leave them in the dust.

You get to the shack and tell the cadets they can sleep on the couch. You ignore their raised eyebrows when you take Shiro into your bedroom and lay him down on the creaky twin mattress. He’s still unconscious. Whatever the Garrison gave him was strong.

It’s Shiro, undeniably, but he’s different. His bangs have gone white. There’s a scar across the bridge of his nose, and probably many more under his threadbare clothes. His right arm is gone, replaced by a metal prosthetic. In that instant, it hits you that Shiro has probably been through hell and back.

You hope he remembers you when he wakes up.

 

x.

It starts like this: you wake up to an empty bedroom, and for a split second you panic, thinking you lost him again. But you find him outside with the sunrise. He’s changed out of the torn jumpsuit and into the outfit of his that you’ve been keeping at the shack. It was one of the few things you took from the Garrison when you left.

You lay a hand on his shoulder, hesitant. _Hey, Shiro._

 _Keith,_ he breathes. And he’s kissing you, desperate and urgent, making up for lost time. His hand slides up into your shaggy hair. His arm wraps around your waist, tugging you closer. You go willingly, pressing against his chest and drinking him in. After all this time, he remembers how you like to be kissed.

He remembers you.

You could cry.

 _It’s good to have you back,_ you tell him when you break apart. Your hands are still gripping his biceps. His forehead is still resting against yours.

 _It’s good to be back_ , he says.

You hold each other, until the cadets wake up with a ruckus. You still can’t believe you have him back. You would have fought the sky for this man, without hesitation. But he’s here now, and you know things will be okay.

 

xi.

It starts like this: you’re hurtling into space at breakneck speed in an alien warship shaped like a lion. Distantly, you wonder if lions are universal.

Lance, the boisterous cadet, is at the lion’s helm, yanking the controls in every direction. His piloting leaves a lot to be desired, but now isn’t the time to be choosy — another alien ship is hot on your tail, firing at you faster than you can keep track of. By the way Shiro tenses at the sight of the other ship, you know it can’t be good news.

Late that night, you finally get to rest. Allura gives each of the new paladins their own room on the castle ship, but you don’t bother to check yours out. You fall into step with Shiro, following him into his quarters when he gives you a look that says he’d rather not spend the night alone. After a year in the desert, you know the feeling.

You peel out of your suits. Too tired to shower, you and Shiro collapse on the bed. It feels unspeakably good, to have him in your arms, to feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

 _What did they do to you out there?_ You ask the question quietly, and only when there’s a strong possibility that he’s asleep.

He shifts, infinitesimally, and that’s how you know he’s awake. _I… I can’t remember._ You feel his muscles tense. _I don’t want to remember, just yet. Let’s go to sleep._

 _Okay,_ you say. _Okay._

 

xii.

It starts like this: it’s not all heroism. There’s a lot of blood involved in being a defender of the universe — both enemies’ and civilians’ — both Shiro’s and your own. You can feel new muscles forming after each day of training; new scars forming after each battle. It’s a trade-off, a give-and-take. You’re just glad that Alteans have healing pods.

You learn that back on the Galra ship, Shiro was a gladiator. It explains his hypervigilance, the raw intensity with which he fights. He fights like a man who no longer fears death, and you fear for him. To imagine him fighting for his survival every day for a year is like a knife twisting in your gut. You begin to wonder if Shiro’s patchy memory is a blessing in disguise.

You’re both alive, though, and both in the same space and time. You save each other in different ways. He wraps the wounds that spring up from your recklessness; steps in before Zarkon can deal the Red Lion a fatal blow. You do your best to calm him on the nights he wakes up shaking and sweating, pupils shrunk with terror; tell him every chance you get that you love him, no matter what the past year made him do.

You know that you can’t love someone’s trauma away.

But _god,_ you wish that you could.

 

xiii.

It starts like this: you pin him to the mat while you’re sparring, and having Shiro underneath you, face flushed and panting, sparks something inside you; something hot and heady and wanting. He must feel it too, because his hands slide up your thighs, and before you know it, he’s carrying you to the room that you share and covering your body with his own on the bed.

Everything is different from how it was before Kerberos. Shiro is more reserved in many ways, but that night, he takes you apart with the urgency of a dying man. Underlying every twist of his fingers, every love bite he leaves on your skin, is the unspoken fear that this will be the last time. His breathing only comes down when you’re lying heavy in his arms in the afterglow, nerve endings abuzz and skin slick with sweat.

 _Hey,_ you murmur. _I’m not going anywhere._

 _I know,_ he says, but his tone betrays him.

You understand. Some nights you have trouble believing it, too.

 

xiv.

It starts like this: raggedly, he asks you to be his second-in-command. It isn’t a stretch — you’re already his right hand man, his partner in everything — but he speaks the words like they’re his last will and testament, and it’s more than you can handle. You’re Shiro’s equal in every way, but you could never replace him. Could never even fathom it.

But he’s wounded and insistent, so you reluctantly agree. You’ll take up the Black Lion if Shiro is ever gone.

But he won’t be gone — not missing, not captive, not dead.

Not if you can help it.

 

xv.

It starts like this: you agree to partake in the Trials of Marmora. Shiro zips you into the thin black and purple suit and asks, _are you sure?_

You’ve never been more sure in your life. You need answers, and this is the only way to get them. _Knowledge or death_ , the Blade members said. _Knowledge or death_.

He presses a kiss to your temple — _for luck._

And then you’re thrust into the Trials, with nothing but your knife and your wits. Both are sharp, but the Blades are fast and ruthless, lunging for the smallest openings without hesitation.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been fighting when you take a knife to the shoulder. It’s like it happens in slow motion, frame by frame. You can feel it slicing your skin in technicolor, can feel blood seeping through the fabric of your armourless suit and running warm down your back.

You grow exponentially sloppier, and the Blades fighting against you seem to increase tenfold with each door you pass through. It occurs to you that you’re going to die. This isn’t how you want to die.

Just when you think you’ve fought your last, you see an opening. You slide through the trapdoor and are met with Shiro. You nearly collapse in relief.

But his eyes are cold. Something’s not right. For the first time since you’ve known him, he turns his back on you and walks away.

The air seems to shimmer, and you’re back in the desert. You think you see your father, but your vision is blurry, your head light—

Shiro is shaking you awake. You barely have enough left in you to say his name.

He glares at the Blades as he helps you up, careful to avoid the wound on your shoulder. _We’re leaving._

 _Wait._ It hurts — everything hurts — but you failed. You lurch over to Kolivan, prepared to surrender your blade.

Beaten and bleeding, your blade starts to glow, and just like that, you’re a motherfucking alien. A thousand things begin to make sense.

Red must know how badly you’re hurt, because she lets Shiro fly you back to the castle without protest. You’re curled in his lap, tears cutting tracks through the grime on your face.

_Hold on, Keith. We’re almost there._

That’s exactly what you’re afraid of.

 

xvi.

It starts like this: you enter the common room as a teammate and leave as a trespasser. Their glares and stares only register as white noise against the physical pain. You are so very tired. Shiro’s hand on your back is the only thing preventing your collapse.

 _She’ll come around, Keith._ It’s late at night, and Shiro rubs slow circles into your bare back, carefully avoiding your wounds. They’re still stinging, still tender from being cleaned and bandaged. Your tear ducts have long run out, but you’re still shaking. _She’ll come around._

He has every right to give up on you. You’d understand. The blood that runs through your veins runs through those of the people who put him through hell; the people who destroyed Allura’s entire planet. If anyone is justified in shunning you, it is them.

Understanding does nothing to dull the pain.

But Shiro stands by you as resolutely as a mountain. His lips trail down the ridges of your spine, ever so gentle. He doesn’t treat you as something fragile, even though in this moment, fragile is exactly what you are. Rather, you are something precious in his eyes, someone who doesn’t need protection but deserves it all the same.

He can’t love your pain away any more than you can love away his.

But damn if he doesn’t try.

 

xvii.

It starts like this: the calm before the storm, the silence before the song, the lull before the war. The plans have been laid. The lions are ready. All that is left to do is wait.

The waiting is killing you.

There’s only minutes before takeoff. In the hangar, you and Shiro fall into each other’s orbits.

_Be safe out there, all right?_

You laugh, but the impending fight makes it come out half-hearted. _Aren’t I always?_

He smiles, but it's tight with worry.  _I mean it, you know._

 _I know,_ you say, and pull him into a bone-crushing hug. _Take care, Shiro. I’ll see you on the other side._

 

xviii.

It starts like this, because this can’t be the end, it _can’t_ , you won’t let it: you go to the Black Lion and it is empty.

You want to scream, to cry, to tell him about it — but then you remember: he is gone.

 _Not gone,_ you tell yourself. _Not yet._

You let the training droid throw you around until you are too sore and exhausted to think, let alone cry. _Let alone do something reckless._ You can hear his voice in your head, in perfect clarity. It feels like drowning.

You sleep. The bed is cold.

The next morning, you go to Black.

 _Help me,_ you plead to her. _Help me find him._

She is silent.

 

xix.

It starts like this: he never gave up on you — the cadet with a chip on his shoulder, the reckless Red Paladin, the half-Galra who began to doubt if the word _good_ could ever apply to him again — and so you will not give up on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought of this fic, so feel free to leave a comment :3


End file.
